


hiraeth

by seoafin



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Gore, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Psychological Torture, Torture, Violence, black widow! reader, intentionally vague, slightly optimistic i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 11:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: The Winter Soldier, they call him in hushed whispers exuding secrecy in the dead of the night.He has more names--- soldat, the asset, prisoner 56898.But you have come to know him as James.





	hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> so i love the entire idea of a black widow reader?? and for those of you who know me also know that i love DC/bw together too so haha i gave it a shot. this was originally was supposed to be super dark and depressing and just saturated in angst but i took out some stuff and gave it an ending open to interpretation  
> this was also supposed to be a steve/reader but i scrapped it bc bucky needs more love

You see him, sometimes, in the corridor, silent and unmoving. A wall of thick muscle that looms over you and the other girls, casting a long shadow along the walls of the Red Room. He’s one of the only men you’ve ever seen, aside from one or two male scientists (you hear the low timber of their voices, late at night when it echoes down the halls, along with with the screams but you don’t dwell on that) with their white coats and clipboards, observing you like lab rats you are.

He is big and strange and _foreign_.

The Winter Soldier, they call him in hushed whispers exuding secrecy in the dead of the night.

He has more names--- _soldat, the asset, prisoner 56898._

But you have come to know him as James.

———————-

He is warmth in the coldness of the Red Room that has seeped into your bones and pulled you under, leaving you feeling nothing but numb and compliant, putty in the hands of the madame who has molded you into her best, _the_ best.

_“You will be Russia’s greatest,” she coos from above you, languidly stroking your hair. You sit in front of the vanity mirror, primed with makeup and beauty and poison._

_Her nails rake down your scalp, lightly, yet deep enough to let you feel the indents she leaves behind. Hands on both sides of your face, her fingers tilt your face up with ease, for you are but her puppet, hers to control and command. Allégro. Shoot. Assemblé. Break. Grand jeté. Kill._

_You are the madame’s._

_You are Russia’s._

_You are---_

Sometimes the two of you talk. He knows of things you have only read about, things you have never seen, sequestered away from the world in the Russian wilderness where there is snow, the madame, and _him_. His Russian has an upwards lilt to it, thick with what you believe to be an American accent when he grapples with words out of his range.

You’ll never tell him, but you like his accent. It’s foreign and smooth and quite unlike the rough, sharp tongue of the madame. You like it when he sighs your name in the dark, tucked into the curve of your neck. Not the name you have donned in the name of Mother Russia. But your real name.

It reminds you that you are not completely lost.

Other times you fuck--- nothing but a blur of heated bodies, harsh panting, and low murmurs. And sometimes, when time allows it, the two of you bask in the silence, a small reprieve in a place where there is none, heavy with the knowledge that any day could be your last.

Not physically of course. The two of you are far too important to be killed. Physically. They would not hesitate to cut you at the limbs and cripple you even further. They will dissect and dismember, cut away at your humanity until there is none.

It doesn’t scare you like it should.

\--

The routine is seared into your head. And everyday, like a clockwork, you wordlessly drop mid-pointe and leave the room to make your way down one of the many corridors in the maze that is the Red Room. The other girls don’t question your disappearance. They know better than to ask questions. The madame’s word is law, and there is no questioning the law.

You step barefooted onto the padded floor, and it sinks beneath your feet. The room is surrounded by barres and mirrors and--

you aren’t alone, and you aren’t surprised.

The madame stands at the end of the room, red lips curled into a smile that hints at the blood that will soon occur. Next to her stands a man, a handler-- _his_ handler.

A shiver rips down your spine, but your face betrays nothing. No weakness is allowed in front of the madame. To be weak is to be ruthlessly slaughtered in the the room that encompasses your world. You are broken, but the Madame loves broken.

Broken things can be fixed. Fill the gaps and cracks with glue and hold until it sets. Shaped into one’s own making. Broken once again if the outcome is undesirable. Refined. Sharpened. Improved.

_Fixed._

The madame has no patience for things that have outlived their usefulness. So you fight, dance, kill, smile--

All in the name of Mother Russia.

The moment he steps inside the room, every hair on your body is alight. He moves with a swiftness that is reminiscent of a cat on the prowl, eyeing the danger before it pounces as you both circle each other.

You know how this will end: bruised, bloodied, with the both of you a little bit more hollow.

Maybe today you will break his nose, and in reciprocation he will only break three ribs.

But later, he will lightly thumb your bruises in the dark, the word, ‘sorry’ stuck to his tongue as he presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone.

You are fooling yourself if you believe that everything will be fine.

\--

You wish you could love him. You wish you could call him yours. You wish--

You are foolish ~~because you belong to the madame and Mother Russia.~~

\--

They are killing him.

You can see it in his movements, the way he holds you, and how the light in his eyes are slowly dimming. Less conversation. More fucking. Fingers dig into your skin fervently as if you are the last remaining reminder of his humanity that is being ripped from his hands.

You want to laugh, but you don’t know how.

\--

The man’s hands are tethered behind his back, straw bag hastily stuffed over his face and tied around his neck. You can hear increased, heavy breathing that makes the bag puff up in the area in front of his mouth. Hyperventilation. Or in more simpler terms: an unsteady balance of exhaling more than inhaling.

He struggles against his binds. “Hello?’ Panicked. Scared. A foreigner. _“Is anybody there?”_ They always struggle.

You pay no mind to it, usually. It’s an mindless, repetitive exercise under the guise of ‘target practice’ that only reiterates your devotion to the madame, reaffirms the control she holds over you. It is less about skill and more about mindless obedience.

But today, it is not you doing the killing.

Oh Anya.

Poor, beautiful Anya with hair of spun gold, and eyes the color of a sky you have never seen before. She has long outgrown the days of the classroom, spine straight, arms parallel to your shoulders as чистый белый цвет slowly flickers to life.

Lift. Aim. Shoot.

It’s easy.

Or, at least, it becomes easier.

The cock of the gun echoes within the chambers of the room. Anya is calm, expressionless, fixed on the target with a concentration that earns the madame’s approval.

_Good girl._

“ _Oh god_ ,” the body begs, sobs wracking its body. A loud one. A crier. A beggar. You fear for what this means for Anya, and you are right when she stills, legs locked into place. You are silent from your place next to the madame.

It is a position of pseudo power.

You are the highest ranked in the Red Room.

The noose around your neck is tied tighter than the other girls, and you give in to sleep every night with the knowledge that madame is watching every move you make. Her voice is the lullaby you fall asleep to, and her eyes are the nightmare that you awake to.

The other girls are organized into two lines, parallel to each other. They watch, emotionless, hands neatly crossed against their backs awaiting their turn.

It is a lesson and warning in one.

They know what will happen should Anya fails.

A part of you believes that the madame prefers it that way. Another way to cement submission and ensure nobody ever crosses her, but you will never know.

Anya is young still. Perhaps the madame is feeling lenient. The first sign of hesitation is only a broken wrist, which won’t hinder movement as much. Then the ankles. Nobody knows what is next. Nobody wishes to test the madame’s patience.

Ballet practice, of course, is still mandatory.

To hesitate is to be weak and to be weak is to be killed.

These are the rules you live and die by, etched into your mind after years and years of conditioning. The Red Room is a wild jungle under the guise of prim and proper. Only the strongest survive.

_Do not hesitate, do not hesitate, do not hesitate._

“Please…I--I have family-- _a daughter_ \--”

Oh Anya.

The way her index finger on the trigger wobbles ever so slightly, barely discernible to the normal eye.

But the madame is not normal. Everything within her purview is organized like the fine chop of a knife on the cutting board, precise and scrupulous. Nothing happens without her knowledge. Even your time with your soldier. The air is tense. The smile falls from her lips and every girl in the room straightens in apprehension, collectively holding their breaths as they watch in terse silence.

_“Anya.”_

She’s frozen. In shock or terror or maybe even plain refusal.

_No, no, no, no--_

They will _break_ her.

All you can think of is Anya as a heap of broken bones and torn ligaments; crudely pulled out teeth, eyes, and hair. Meticulous, with the pain drawn out to make her suffer. They will leave her nothing but a corpse to be disposed of in pieces.

You are used to the way your body moves, swift and deadly, on the madame’s whim. It is on a subconscious level that she has wormed herself into your brain like a parasite. All it takes is a word, a glance, a nod-- to use you like the weapon you are. After all, there is no need for the individual inside, when she can have the monster of her own making.

That’s why, you suppose, you don’t register what you’ve done until the safety of the gun clutched in your hand clicks off and the hall falls eerily silent.

It is a motion you’ve gone through so many times, it comes as easy to you as breathing, an arabesque.

_Oh._

The madame’s sanguine lips are stretched into a tight smile akin to a snarl. A personal affront.

“That,” she says slowly, every syllable a guillotine inching you closer to your death. Anya’s arms remains in place, shoulders tense. “Was not your kill.”

Silence.

You tread a very, very thin line.

“His voice,” you say flippantly, hoping to keep your voice from wavering, “grated on my ears.” You push out the words with a hint of boredom infused into them that makes her eyes narrow. You are a performer. It is second nature to put on a smile, and beguile the audience into believing the unbelievable.

It’s the way you say it, not enough to be insolent, but enough to reiterate that you are her best. That you have surpassed these meager training exercises.

But you have disrespected her.

Her smile is fixed in place.

“Disperse.”

The girls scurry away with as much as dignity and grace as they can muster in the face of the madame’s wrath, including Anya, and you’re not sure if you have stopped the execution, or prolonged it.

\--

You are in trouble.

_troubletroubletroubletroubletrouble---_

The madame knows, she _knows_.

Her smile is smug, satisfied, as she regards you with interest.

The small piece of humanity you’ve been hiding--

smoked out.

She’s been waiting for you to slip up, to make a mistake, to _feel_.

And you displayed _weakness_.

Because today you were human.

And that is unacceptable because you are a weapon.

\--

You drop your stare to your feet, averting her gaze. It is a show of submission. Your feet are still clad in ballet slippers.

“It was not my place.” You murmur evenly.

“No,” the madame says softly. The predator going for the kill. “It wasn’t.” Her finger lifts your chin, and you meet her gaze. Disappointment.

A figure enters the room from the corner of your eye, and you recognize the clunky gait.

It is your winter soldier, with his sad eyes that speak of a happiness he might have once known. You don’t lift your head, and you wonder if it is because of the madame or because you don’t wish to see what they have done to him.

“Now survive,” she says, simply stating the facts of the snow globe world you live in. Her voice sounds far away and you hear the click of her sharp, pointy heels. You can almost feel them digging into your ribcage with each step. “Then we’ll talk punishment.”

The air immediately turns lethal.

He steps forward, nuzzle obscuring the bottom portion of his face. You search his eyes for anything resembling the man, but there is nothing. The metal plates on his arms whirl as they shift. It is a death hymn.

Self preservation instincts kick in, slamming into your gut with the urge to run before you get killed. But the mistress is watching, so all you can do is fight and hope that the injuries you sustain will be enough to satisfy her.

He lunges at you, arm shooting out to grab your wrist, but you duck and kick out your leg. It hits his ankle. When he grunts, caught off guard and slightly off balance, you curl your fingers around his arm and use the momentum to slam him to floor.

You’re on top of him, but he cuts a punch into your gut. Before you can react, his metal fist meets your face so hard that blood gushes out of your nose and splatters onto the padded floor. Your vision goes blurry. You can feel the madame’s eyes boring into the back of your head.

_survivesurvivesurvivesurvive--_

Rolling off of him, you try to stand back up. He’s in front of you quickly, and you weave out of his way with another roll.

You aim a kick at his head, but he intercepts, catching your leg in his hands.

You try to jerk out of his grasp, but when one hand goes on top of your thigh and another underneath your ankle, sudden realization in the form of panic shoots up your spine, leaving you rigid.

_Relax. It'll hurt less._

A choked gasp leaves your mouth when he breaks your leg. The audible crack as the bone of your leg splinters echoes in the chambers of your ear. Pain streaks against your vision and the only thing you can focus on is the numbness of your body.

You are a Black Widow. Pain is only temporary, and you are nothing if not resourceful.

Even with a broken leg, you drop to the floor onto your back, forcing him to let go. You don’t expect him to drop down with you, planting his hands on either side of your face. You strike your balled fist upwards and it misses its target because you blink and he has you pinned to the floor.

You are floating, only vaguely aware of the madame’s menacing presence behind you.

Through slanted eyes you meet his gaze once again, and see a flicker of despondency them.

_Not your fault._

“I believe,” you hear the madame start. Her voice sounds muffled, far away. “That congratulations may be in order.”

You black out when he breaks your other leg.

\---

When you wake up, your legs are bandaged and numb. There’s a fluorescent light trained on your face, and your mouth is dry. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you stare at the metal handcuffs around your wrists, trapping you to the armrests of the gurney.

Next to you sits your ballet slippers, neatly folded.

It is the madame’s way of telling you that she expects to see you soon. Or more specifically: in seven hours.

Your thoughts are discombobulated, jumbled. They slowly become coherent the longer you’re awake.

As muddled and confused as you feel, you will never be too injured to be alert of your surroundings at all time; one of the first lessons the madame ever taught you. Survey your environment. Grab the upper hand. _Win_.

Someone is here in the room with you.

He moves with the darkness, and never quite steps into the light. But you can see the guilt and regret written all over his worn face.

“M’ sorry.” He says hoarsely, too many unsaid words left up in the air. He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t have to. You know the extent to which it is easy to escape your body when under the influence of following orders. The winter soldier and the man are separate entities: wresting control in a game of tug of war, fighting a never ending war.

You want to touch him one last time, brush your lips against the plane of his face in the protection of the dark, hidden away from the world. Your hands twitch within the confines of the metal casings and you wish he’d come closer.

“James.” You rasp out, and he tenses, eyebrows creased as it takes him a moment to recognize his own name. You swallow down the lump in your throat.

They are killing him.

“James Buchanan Barnes.” You say, merely repeating his own words whispered into your ear so long ago. Then:  _"Bucky."_

He flinches so hard, he stumbles back, blinking rapidly to regain his focus.

"Buck-Bucky..." He breathes out, lips parted, eyes faraway. He shakes his head. "I am..."

"Bucky," you supply. And something in your chest squeezes.  _"James."_

The weapon is taking over. His shoulders straighten, balled hands slowly unclenching, and you are desperate.

“Your best friend is…” You scan his face, searching, searching, _searching---_ “Steve Rogers.”

You are desperate to hold him, feel his warmth one last time.

“You can’t forget, you--- _please_.”

There’s a grimness in his eyes that makes your heart sink to your stomach.

You didn't know you still had one.

It is the last time you ever see him.

\---

There is another girl.

Small, lithe, and deadly with red hair the color of flames with the finest emeralds cut out of marble and placed in her eyes.

The madame is already training her to replace you.

She is strong. She will not make the same mistakes as you.

She is unbreakable.

Her name is Natalia.

\---

You are 1 of the 28 Black Widow agents with the Red Room.

Training is hard, but the glory of the...the...soviet supremacy, and the warmth of your parents...your...parents…

...

...

...

You peel your dry eyes open and see a plaster ceiling with cracks and stains littered all over. The motel room is dirty and sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to take a long, scalding shower.

It is a luxury that you would have never indulged in back in the Red Room.

But the Red Room is gone.

You made sure of it when you walked over its remains.

You are...free.

Free to roam as you please, free to feast your eyes on all the sights you have only dreamed about, free to pursue anything you wish---

free to... _love_.

Complete autonomy.

However, the twenty first century is...odd.

Or perhaps it is just you and your outdated ways.

The madame equipped you with all the ways to seamlessly blend into society. To at any cost, complete the mission with a ruthless efficiency that permeates every aspect of your life, yet you still find yourself an outsider peering in through the window with a hand on the glass.

So you search.

Search for familiar in the face of unknown.

It is not the madame’s voice that follows you into your dreams anymore. It is blue eyes, and the ghost of kiss pressed to your neck. A rough voice, thick with lust and warm against your neck.

_James Buchanan Barnes._

His name leaves your lips in a prayer.

You hope ( _hope_ , you want to scoff. The very notion contradicts your very being, but the Red Room is gone, and so are all your inhibitions about this tiny, fluttering feeling in your chest you believe to be _hope_ ) that you are not beyond redemption.

Because for the first time in your life, you are free.

**Author's Note:**

> btw the entire bw quote is:  
> I am one of 28 young ballerinas with the Bolshoi. Training is hard, but the glory of the soviet culture, and the warmth of my parents… my… parents… makes up for….  
> no… that’s not right…  
> I am one of the 28 Black Widow agents with the Red Room. Training is hard, but the glory of the soviet supremacy, and the warmth of my parents…. all my parents…. makes up for… You’ll have to excuse me…
> 
> hmu @ seoafin.tumblr.com !!


End file.
